A Matter of Time
by fairwinds09
Summary: He thinks that it will end here, blood and darkness and terror and the woman he loves slowly dying in his arms. (It does not.) Otherwise known as the one with the small and incredibly annoying medic.
1. Premonition

Note: Title taken from a quote attributed to Hippocrates:

"Healing is a matter of time, but it is sometimes also a matter of opportunity."

* * *

This is the end.

That's what he thinks, hands shaking, mouth dry, stomach twisted with nausea and dread. This is the end, here, in the darkness, the cobblestones digging into his knees, the cloying stench of the filthy alleyway filling his nose.

This is the end. Gaby, bleeding out in his arms.

Her blood coats his hands, slick and dark, seeping sluggishly between his fingers from the hole just below her breastbone. She doesn't move, doesn't make a sound, and he fears that it is already too late. Something in his chest gapes open, a chasm of terror that he has not felt since the day they dragged his father away, and he bows his head over the motionless body in his arms and tries to breathe.

He does not know what he will do if she dies.

* * *

It begins five hours earlier, at a stained and pitted table, in a hotel room that overlooks a dingy back alley, on the edge of one of the seedier areas of Moers.

There are maps and plans and diagrams spread out across the table, an abandoned coffee cup acting as paperweight. Gaby is perched in one of the two rickety chairs, feet drawn up under her, fingers running over the blue-inked lines as her lips move soundlessly. She does this every time, runs through every possible escape route and exit strategy in her head before an op, charts it with her fingers as if she can take apart the diagram and put it back together like one of her beloved engines.

Illya watches her covertly, from the corners of his eyes, as he cleans and re-cleans and obsessively checks every weapon in their small cache. He has them all spread out on the end of the single double bed—not much room, but he's making it work. They each have their own methods of preparing for a mission, their own ways of calming themselves enough to harness the adrenaline, force it down into laser-sharp focus and steady hands.

He is having trouble controlling his nerves tonight, though, and he doesn't know why. Something about the whole setup seems off by just a hair, like a sight that won't quite focus, and it has him edgy and preoccupied. He has cleaned the barrel of Gaby's Browning three times now, and he hasn't paid proper attention to it once. Finally he gives up, sets the gun down and looks over at her.

"Surely you have it memorized now, _da_?" he says, and doesn't bother to hide the edge in his voice. She flicks a glance up at him, and he can tell just from the thin line of her lips that she's irritated with him.

"I _will_ have them memorized, if you will stop talking," she mutters, and shifts the coffee cup to one side to pull out yet another diagram. He grits his teeth.

"We do not have all night," he reminds her. She shoves her bangs out of the way roughly and makes a sharp motion with her hand in his general direction, as if waving away a large and annoying insect.

"I know this," she says distantly, without looking at him. Then, after a moment— " _Verdammt_ , Illya, we can't even get into the factory until after the shift change at 11:00. What is the rush, hmm?"

He shakes his head, trying to shift away the gnawing sense of something about to go wrong, and gets up to stand at the window, looking out at the dank, narrow passage below.

"I am ready to go," he says finally. It's as close as he will get to admitting that he's on edge, nerves tightened to the breaking point, and she lifts her head from her diagrams to lay a small hand on his sleeve. He starts a little at the touch, his skin humming as it always does when her hands are on him.

"Calm down," she tells him bluntly, but her fingers are gentle when they stroke over the dark fabric. "It's nothing we haven't done before."

"I know," he says, and moves away before he does something foolish. They have worked together for over a year now—an entire year, three hundred and sixty-five days and change of exponential longing, and it is becoming increasingly difficult for him to bear.

He remembers learning about exponents in his mathematics courses in the state schools, remembers being fascinated by how quickly even small numbers could grow to something enormous when raised to a large enough power. It is the best way he can think of to categorize this _thing_ that has grown up between himself and Gaby—a small something, a flash of attraction in a dress shop, a dance turned wrestling match in a hotel room in Rome, her voice screaming his name as he tumbled down a mountainside—all of it magnified, become impossibly enormous, engulfing, when raised to the power of twelve months spent working together in incredibly close conditions. It is so huge now that he cannot even think to escape it; he is simple hoping that he can learn to cope with being hopelessly in love with his partner without ever letting her know. (He is aware of the fact that he will most likely fail.)

Shaking away thoughts of love according to the rules of mathematics, he paces from the bed to the tiny bathroom and back again, stalking over the cigarette burns in the carpet, one foot placed precisely before the other. After a moment, he hears her scoff in annoyance.

"Must you do that?" comes her voice from behind him, laced with exasperation. "I am almost finished. Why don't you do something useful, finish packing up the weapons or something?"

He glares mutinously in her direction, but does what she says anyway. He is not doing either of them any good letting the nerves show like this, and he knows it.

It takes her another ten minutes before she's satisfied, and then she's rolling the plans and diagrams into neat cylinders, stacking them neatly in her briefcase before she clicks the locks closed and spins the dials that Solo had personally installed to prevent easy lock-picking.

"Ready?" she murmurs, and he nods. Forebodings or no, they have a job to do.

She goes first, briefcase strapped to her back, gloved hands clutching at the climbing rope they have anchored to the windowsill. They cannot afford to attract attention by leaving in the conventional method—best to quietly slide to the ground from their second-story window and slip into the getaway car parked conveniently below. She's poised on the edge of the sill, ready to slide down, when he holds up a hand to stop her. She looks the perfect spy, his little chop-shop girl, lithe body all in black, eyes dark and focused, but there's something missing. Gravely, he pulls a black knit cap from his back pocket and settles it over her smooth bun, tugging it down over the tips of her ears.

"What is this?" she says, puzzled and a little wary, and he lets himself just barely smile at her.

"To keep hair in place during mission," he explains, very seriously, and she rolls her eyes at him.

"Of all the things to worry about—" she begins, but he takes a gamble and shushes her with his thumb, light against her lips.

"Time to go," he tells her, and sees her lips quirk before she disappears from view.

When he follows, the heavy case containing their weapons in one hand and what little luggage they have on his back, he feels his spirits lift a little at the sight of her sitting behind the wheel of their nondescript car, the cap still firmly in place. She is ready, and he must be as well.

Perhaps the foreboding is just that—nothing more.

* * *

A/N No. 2: So...I am very much aware that I have an unfinished WIP and a series of vaguely related one-shots strung together that I really should be working on. But this idea grabbed hold and would not go away, so I've been working on it for three weeks or so. The whole thing's mostly finished, although I'm still figuring out how I want to structure the chapters and dealing with a few thematic elements. On the bright side, since it's mostly done, updates should be fairly frequent!

Please let me know what you think-it's the first time I've written anything even vaguely approximating mission fic, and I'm hoping that it works, more or less. (Although you should probably be aware of the fact that the mission aspect evaporates fairly quickly in favour of shameless hurt/comfort.)


	2. Realization

As it turns out, his forebodings are unpleasantly accurate.

Breaking into the factory goes smoothly enough. Their mission is to get into the private offices of one of the chief chemists, who (according to U.N.C.L.E. sources) is being paid obscene sums of money to turn his talents to more…devious uses. Perusing his file has given them three main points of data, none of which are particularly comforting. Point 1: Otto Frisch is incredibly good at his job, which primarily involves tinkering with chemical formulas to make a variety of more effective products, ranging from petrol to detergent. In all honesty, Otto is brilliant enough to be a molecular chemist anywhere on the Continent he likes.

All of which would be perfectly fine were it not for Point 2: Otto feels decidedly underappreciated in his current position. He also has an indescribably depressing personal life, which at the moment consists mainly of weekly visits to his widowed mother and an unhealthy fondness for his three tabby cats. This has led to a deep dissatisfaction with his current situation, which leads to Point 3: When a former Nazi turned arms dealer approached Otto three months ago and offered him ridiculous amounts of money to begin tinkering with formulas for chemical weapons instead of laundry detergent, Otto jumped at the opportunity. (It did not hurt that the former Nazi cum arms dealer brought along an incredibly attractive escort.)

The idea of a man with Otto Frisch's abilities involved in chemical weapons manufacturing was frightening enough to warrant all three of U.N.C.L.E.'s parent agencies' enthusiastic involvement. Solo was tapped to fly to Madrid in hopes of infiltrating the arms dealer's inner circle, in an effort to discover exactly what sort of chemical weapons the man wanted and for what dire purposes. Illya and Gaby were tasked with retrieval of the formulas themselves. (It was decided that Otto could be retrieved on a subsequent mission, since there seemed to be very little chance that he would make a break for it. Otto Frisch may be many things, but courageous is not one of them.)

Hence their midnight sojourn to Otto's gleaming suite of offices. Illya is forced to admit that Gaby looks annoyingly (distractingly) adorable in her knit cap, frowning over Otto's formulas and diagrams, face faintly illuminated by the pocket torch she holds over the documents. She hisses through her teeth as she smoothes one of the pages open and anchors it into place with Otto's elegant pen case.

"What?" he says shortly. He does not want bad news tonight.

She clenches her jaw tightly and shakes her head.

"It's bad," she answers, sounding faintly disgusted. "Biological warfare—chemical agents in the water supply, poisoned gas pushed through ventilation systems, even some kind of chemical that causes reproductive failure. Babies born deformed, or dead. _Sheiße_."

She grits her teeth and shoves the papers off to the side. Illya doesn't say anything, but he can't help but share her horror. He's seen enough back home in the USSR to know what kinds of horrors poverty and war can cause. He can't imagine trying to exacerbate them with chemicals that poison even in the womb.

Gaby pulls open another filing drawer and begins riffling through it. Suddenly, she stops, fingers locked around something.

"Illya," she says quietly, eyes flicking up to meet his. "I found it."

She brandishes a slim manila folder and begins to pull out the documents inside. Page after page of neatly organized formulas land on the desk, each detailing in Frisch's cramped script the compounds used, the possible effects, and the best methods of introducing the chemical into the subject's environment. Illya lets out a little involuntary breath of relief. This is exactly what they came for. Their mission is accomplished, and now they can get out of this office, this building, this _town_ , and the crawling sensation of something about to go horribly wrong will finally stop plaguing him.

Almost on cue, he hears the distant sound of banging on the service door two flights below. _Fuck_. Someone knows they're here.

"Did you forget to dismantle the alarm system?" she hisses, looking at him sharply. He shakes his head.

"I dismantled alarm system," he mutters, mapping out all the possibilities like he's deconstructing a chess match in his brain. Suddenly it occurs to him. "That is why they send someone. They have an external connection to system—if it is not working when they send signal to check, they send guard. We have to go. Fast."

She nods, not bothering with words, and begins gathering the paperwork they need. He mentally calculates how much time it would take to photograph the files and put them back, and discards the idea. They have to get out of here. There's no more time for finesse.

"Do you have what we need?" he asks her, and her lips press together.

"I want more time to look in that drawer, but I don't think we have it," she says, shooting a glance at the window. They can see movement in the guard tower at the gates, flashing lights and a small cluster of dark-uniformed men. He opens the door of the office suite and listens. The banging has stopped, which means that they will be sending reinforcements to break down the door at any moment.

"You have two minutes," he tells her. She tugs the drawer open and rifles through it hastily, no time to be tidy, grabbing files as she goes. Below, he can hear something heavy thud against metal, and he estimates how long it will take them to break down the service entrance doors. As he listens, ears straining, his eyes flick from his watch to her, back and forth, darting to the window every once in a while. Something in his gut tightens. This feels too close, even though they've come through worse situations and been fine. He motions abruptly with one hand.

"Gaby." His voice is sharper than he means it to be, and she glances up with fear stark on her face.

"They are here?" she whispers, body tensing.

"No, no," he answers. "But hurry." The thuds are getting louder, heavier. Closer now.

A few seconds more ( _thirty-five, thirty-four, thirty-three_ he chants in his mind, watching the second hand of his father's watch tick steadily), and she's ready, files stored in the briefcase strapped across her back, pistol at the ready.

"Let's go," she murmurs, and then they're slipping out the entrance to the suite, assessing both ends of the corridor before slipping silently down the hallway, headed for the side entrance. As they round the corner, they hear the rhythmic thuds from below change to a loud crunch of metal and hinges, and then there is the drumming of booted feet in the stairwell. Illya shifts until he's behind her, his body covering hers, and they ghost down a flight of stairs and turn again, unerring and sure.

Halfway down, she glances back over her shoulder at him, frowning.

"What about the car?" she hisses, and he shakes his head. Sound carries too easily in empty buildings, and their pursuers are not far behind. When they get to the bottom, he pulls her close, his hands on her shoulders.

"We will have to leave car," he whispers in her ear, and tries to not let himself register her scent in his nose, the warmth of her small body pressed against his. "They will have found it by now."

She nods her assent, and then, before she can move away from him, they hear voices just above them. Neither moves a muscle.

" _Siehst du sie?_ "

Illya lets himself breathe again. _Do you see them?_ at least means they haven't been made. Yet.

Gaby is frozen in front of him, but he realizes with a spark of deeply inconvenient arousal that while she's not making a sound or a movement, she's nevertheless pressing back against him, hard. He doesn't know whether it's out of fear or whether she's trying to make herself as small a target as possible, but either way, she's hitting him in all the right places, and this is _not_ the time to be thinking of what this would feel like if she were wearing nothing but thin silk and that tight ass of hers were pressed against him just so…

A sharp pinch to the inside of his wrist jolts him back to reality. She's jerking her head to the side minutely, and it takes him a moment to register what she means. The voices above them have moved on, and this is the best chance they have to make it out unseen.

They move smoothly, seamlessly down the hallway, and he manages to squelch the unwilling arousal, perform his duty with the skill he's been trained to demonstrate. Miraculously, the side entrance door is unguarded (this is sloppy, he thinks, even from private guards), and they slip out into the gated compound surrounding the factory, sticking to the shadows, edging around the corner of the building with incredible care. He forces her behind him with one hand as he peers around the concrete wall, ignoring her small huff of protest. Now is not the time for a discussion on equality of the sexes in the field, he thinks.

Their path is clear, and they make the dash to the wall without being spotted. He gives her a boost and then swings himself up, grateful that they had already cut the barbed wire when they got here an hour ago. Moving quickly, he positions the grappling hook and unfurls the climbing rope.

"Go," he whispers to her, and she adjusts her briefcase and grips the rope tightly. Her face is pale and strained in the dim electric glow from the factory's floodlights, but otherwise she seems calm. They are almost finished, in any case.

He slides down after her, eyes trained on her small figure; he cuts the rope above his head to delay their pursuers, and they head out towards the lights of the city. The factory is on the outskirts of Moers, surrounded on three sides by a field of scrub and patches of withered grass. From the maps they studied, if they head east across this miserable scrap of land, they will end up on one of the side streets of the downtown area, where it should be fairly easy to find and hotwire a car.

When he thinks back (and he does think back, over and over again in the coming weeks), he tells himself that this is the moment where it all went wrong. Nothing happens at this point—in fact, everything is going surprisingly well, all things considered. But this is the point, he tells himself later, where he let his guard down, began to relax…began to let himself be distracted by thoughts of Gaby and hotel rooms and the night before, when she'd had two glasses of vodka and a little Scotch and had danced to the Four Tops, laughing at him when he refused to join her. This is the point where he lets himself get a little lost in the way she moves, lithe and easy, lets himself focus for a moment on the sway of her hips in those tight black pants. And this is the point where he, Illya Kuryakin, the KGB's finest, fails to notice the faint rustle on the wall behind them, fails to turn and see the white face of a guard watching two figures disappear into the darkness, fails to see the white dot drop away as the guard runs to tell his superiors. If he had—if he had—

But he does not, and they slip quietly onto a deserted side street with no indication that anyone from the factory knows where they are. He glances up and down the avenue, noting the street sign that reads _Kranichstraße_ , and gestures to a two-door Audi 72 about a block away.

"That one?" he asks, and she gives it the once-over, assessing. After a moment, she purses her lips and shrugs.

"It's not good, but it'll have to do," she says, and he hears the irritation in her voice. Gaby is exceptionally good at hot-wiring cars, and she prefers a bit of a challenge. The very pedestrian green saloon down the street will offer little in the way of satisfaction.

He smiles at her, just a bit, and dares to take her elbow.

"It will be all right," he promises her with a smirk at the edges of his voice. "Next mission, I will make Solo get you a Porsche to play with, hmm?"

She tilts her head up to glare at him.

"Not funny, Illya," she sniffs, and then she's unstrapping the briefcase so she can bend down to pull her roll of tools out of her boot. Seconds later, she's forced the lock on the little car and has shimmied inside on her back, clever fingers working quickly. He's squatted down next to her, precious briefcase in one hand, and he's looking down the quiet, lamplit street when he hears the first shot ring out.

He ducks instinctively, one arm flung out to cover her, the other grabbing the briefcase close to him. She stares up at him from the floor of the car, eyes wide and terrified.

"Hurry," he hisses, tossing the briefcase into the passenger seat and pulling out his Makarov. The shot came from behind them, which means they've been followed. Moving quickly, he edges out from around the car and scans for signs of movement. There is nothing. Slowly, eyes darting everywhere, he straightens, glances over his shoulder to check on Gaby. Their pursuers must have ducked into an alleyway, which means that the two of them are sitting ducks. They need to get out of here. Now.

"Gaby," he mutters, turning back towards her. As he moves, he hears the warning cough of the engine, and then it turns over and roars to life.

" _Ja!_ " he hears her exult, and then she's sitting up, clambering into the passenger seat. She motions for him to get in, and he's reaching for the door handle when everything happens at once.

At the time, it is a jumbled blur of shock. Later, in his mind, he separates it out into individual strands, each specific part distinct and clear. There is sound—the report of a pistol to his left, the whine of the shot as it flies past his face, a second, closer shot, the tinkle of glass behind him as it misses its mark.

There is motion—his hands clenched around his Makarov, his finger curled around the trigger, the slow fall of the shooter, until he is slumped on the concrete across the street, a darker stain blooming around his dark uniform.

There is sight—two more guards running out of the alleyway, nearly tripping over the body of their dead colleague, a car spinning around the corner, heading towards them from five blocks away, its headlights bouncing off the puddles of oil that have collected on the pavement.

And then there is a blank space, a moment where time and sound and sight all stop, the moment where he realizes that Gaby's hand is lying limp on the frame of the little Audi. That she is not moving.

He knows it did not happen this way, could not have, but he swears that everything goes still and cold and silent as he reaches in to grab her shoulder, to shake her, and then his fingers slide lower and he feels something wet and warm coat his fingers. She is motionless, slumped in the driver's seat, and he cannot hear the sound of her breathing. In the stillness and the silence, something in him just _stops_ , shudders abruptly to a halt. She cannot be—cannot—and then he hears the thud of a bullet lodging in the roof of the little car, and the gears jerk into motion once again.

He doesn't remember how he does it, but somehow in the space of seconds he shoves the briefcase to the floorboard, drags her body to the passenger's seat, and floors the accelerator in time to mow down the two guards charging across the street towards him. The car behind him barely manages to swerve away quickly enough to avoid a collision, and then he's driving in the opposite direction, taking a right-hand turn on two wheels, listening for the screech of brakes behind him. He has a gain of at least two blocks on them, and it's up to three when he sees the headlights swing into view in his rearview mirror.

For a few moments, he thinks he will be able to outrun them, and then he hears an unpleasantly loud pop and feels the car lurch heavily to the left.

"Блядь," he mutters under his breath. They got the tire.

[Блядь literally means "bitch/whore," but can also be translated as a very rude variant of "dammit"]

He thinks quickly, or as quickly as he can when at least three-quarters of his brain is occupied with silently screaming in disbelief and his chest is being slowly crushed with the weight of his panic for her. Ruthlessly, with every ounce of ferocity the KGB beat into him, he shoves down the fear and the despair and focuses on what has to be done. He moves automatically, switching off the headlights and swerving left into a dark alley that is almost too narrow even for the little car. He forces it down the tiny passageway and brakes to a rocking halt just in time. As he watches through the back window, the car behind him speeds past, thinking that he must have turned a street ahead. It worked. In the corner of his brain that is still working, he thanks Solo for the effectiveness of that little trick. Against the odds, it has bought them a little time. Enough, he thinks, to do what he needs to do.

Still moving like an automaton, he forces the door open and scoops Gaby into his arms, grabbing the briefcase as an afterthought. He jogs quickly down the alley, scanning from left to right and back again, before he sees it—a small niche carved into the wall, shielded from view by bulky metal garbage bins. It is enough, he thinks, far enough down the alley, but close enough to the car that they will never think to search here. They will assume that he ran as far from the scene as possible, and in the meantime he can call for the backup they so desperately need right now.

He squeezes into the narrow opening, shoves the damned briefcase to one side, and finally drops to his knees to examine his partner's motionless body. Heart thudding in his throat, he yanks up her black turtleneck and nearly vomits then and there. In the dim light from the street lamp a block away, he can see it clearly enough. There is a dark, ragged-edged hole just below and to the right of her breastbone; he can spy the lacy edge of her brassiere just above it. A slow but steady stream of blood oozes from the wound. The knit fabric of her turtleneck is already tacky with blood, and as he watches in shock, the dark stream begins to slip down her side to drip on the filthy cobblestones.

The bile is rising in his throat already, but just as his head begins to spin with the impossible horror of it all, he sees her chest rise and fall, just barely, a mere flutter of movement. Something surges in his own chest, a wild pulse of hope that gives him the strength to pull down her shirt, tug off his jacket and press it frantically to the wound, bend down to her mouth to listen for the faint sound of breathing. It's there ( _thank you,_ he breathes, and isn't sure whom he's thanking), and he doubles over, holds her there, shaking, his face pressed to her hair, rocking back and forth as he lets himself fall apart a little in relief.

He can't luxuriate in the fact that she's breathing for very long, though, because they are not out of danger yet. There is one last thing he must do, and then there will be nothing left but the waiting.

Fingers fumbling with adrenaline and slick with her blood, he pries open the heel of his boot and reaches for the tracker hidden there. It's a quick thing to send a message to headquarters, usually, just the press of a button in a pre-arranged code. Something he can do in a matter of seconds, under normal circumstances, but it takes him the better part of a minute and a half to send the message, tapping erratically in their own variant of Morse code.

The message is simple: Send backup. Medical. Immediate.

He waits for the red flash that indicates the message has been received, and lets himself breathe again when he sees it. Help is coming. He can only pray that it is fast enough to keep her alive.

Breath harsh and jagged in his chest, he bows his head and pulls her closer, one hand pressed to the jacket over her wound. She will not die. Not here, not tonight, not while he has breath to give her. Not while he can save her, no matter the cost.

He fixes his eyes on her face, and, motionless, he waits.

* * *

So...I have discovered that Actual Mission Fic is incredibly difficult to write, what with plot and semi-accurate details and whatnot, and that I vastly prefer the sort of angsty emotional tripe I usually produce. Fortunately, that is pretty much the rest of the fic, so life should get much easier from here on out.

Please bear in mind that, from this point forward, I am assuming vast quantities of medical knowledge that I do not in fact possess. I have done quite a bit of research, but I am also quite certain that I'm going make a mistake somewhere, since I am not an expert in gunshot wounds. If you want to point out my egregious errors, be my guest, but I'm not going for extreme degrees of medical accuracy here. (In other words, please focus instead on the shiny bauble that I am dangling in front of you in the form of an emotionally devastated Illya Kuryakin.)

Hope you enjoyed-let me know what you think!


	3. Sundered

A/N: Title taken from Tennyson's In Memoriam. "All is well, tho' faith and form  
Be sunder'd in the night of fear."

* * *

The medic arrives thirteen minutes later.

He doesn't like her from the first moment he sees her, tiny and blonde, slim fingers wrapped around the wheel of a muddy Volkswagen 1500, face set like iron. It doesn't really improve matters when she screeches to a halt, mirrors scraping loudly against the garbage bins, and leaps out with a muttered curse in what is unmistakably an American accent.

American. She just had to be American.

"So…you're the agent who called for backup," she says and steps around the bins. Illya stares up at her, evaluating. She's short and small-boned, with wildly curling blonde hair and sharp features, and her jaw is tightly set, pugnacious even. What is the word Solo used during their last mission? _Ball-buster_ , he thinks. It fits.

"Let me see her." He doesn't like her tone, just shy of domineering, but he shifts to the side anyway so that she can slip into the small space. He doesn't let go of Gaby. (He doesn't think he can.)

She makes a humming noise under her breath as she removes his jacket, lifts Gaby's shirt and inspects the wound. It's still bleeding…won't stop bleeding.

"Hmm," she murmurs again, assessing, and his stomach cramps with fear. "You were there when it happened—you carried her here?"

"Yes," he grates out. He doesn't want to remember the moment when he let his partner get shot, doesn't want to sit here and talk about it. They need to get out of here, take Gaby to the hospital, do something. "It is time to go."

She shoots a look over her shoulder and motions for him to lift Gaby onto the cobblestones.

"Working on it," she says, shortly. "If I move her before I've figured out the path of the bullet, I'll cause more harm than good. Patience, Kuryakin."

He takes a deep breath through his nose and tries to keep his hands from shaking. Did she really have the temerity to tell him to be patient?

"We do not have time," he tries again, fingers clenching into fists, watching impotently as her capable hands gently roll Gaby to her side, poke and prod at her back. "They will come back—soon."

She ignores him, continues her exploration, and finally nods, satisfied.

"The bullet is lodged in her chest, but as far as I can tell, it's nowhere near the spinal column." She raises an eyebrow. "That's good news, in case you were wondering."

Enraged, he gives her a look of utter disbelief. What kind of idiot does she think he is to not know this—to waste time telling him these things when Gaby could be dying?

She ignores the flash of anger in his eyes and stands up, hands propped on her narrow hips.

"Now," she says, and the edge in her voice makes his teeth grit, "lift her very carefully and go sit in the back. Keep pressure on the wound, but don't use your jacket. I need to to able to know immediately if the bleeding gets worse."

He obeys, settling in the cramped back seat with Gaby limp in his arms, one hand pressed to her chest. (Her shirt is still sticky with her blood, and the thought makes him want to scream, rip the car into pieces like the night they met, fury and metal parts flying through the air.) Seconds later, he's thrown against the window as the little medic reverses down the alley with a jolt and the screech of scraping metal.

"Hold on," she says abruptly, and then they're flying through the streets of Moers at well above the legal speed limit. (He hopes against hope that there are no policemen in their path tonight.)

It's not until they are out of the city limits and speeding through the dark countryside that he dares to ask the question he's been suppressing for the last five miles.

"Will she be…all right?" It almost chokes him, that single phrase, and he's not sure he wants to know the answer.

She shrugs a little and checks her side mirrors.

"It depends," she says, bluntly. "If I can get her to Oberhausen in time, if the wound hasn't punctured any vital organs, if she doesn't bleed out first, then yes. There are too many factors to tell. If not—"

He gives her a look that could strip metal.

"If she does not make it," he rumbles, low and menacing through clenched teeth, "I will hold you responsible."

She stares at him coolly in the rearview mirror.

He continues, voice turning flat and unemotional. "And then I will kill you. Believe me."

She laughs.

"Really?" she asks, and he cannot fathom why she thinks this is funny. "For God's sake, Kuryakin, do you honestly think that spitting threats at me through your teeth is going to scare me? I worked behind the Iron Curtain for five years, go back and forth still when the agency needs me. You are hardly the first Soviet to threaten me with death…or worse. Save your breath."

She is quite honestly the most irritating woman he's ever met, with the possible exception of the one who's currently cradled in his arms, bleeding out over the upholstery of the back seat. He increases the pressure on Gaby's wound and narrows his eyes. If he didn't need her just at the moment, he'd happily throw the little blonde medic off the nearest cliff.

"Just drive," he orders, and his heart rate spikes when he notices how choppy Gaby's breathing is. He's no doctor, but he knows enough to be afraid. He doesn't hear any bubbling, but he has no way of knowing whether or not her lungs are filling with blood, whether there's internal bleeding. All he knows is that his hands are still coated with her blood, his jacket is already soaked with it, and there is only so much someone this small can lose before it is too late.

"Pull over," he barks, his voice strained and sharp with fear. "Pull over. She is bleeding too much. Now!"

The medic obeys, swinging the car to the shoulder and throwing it into park with impressive speed. She's out of the front seat and at his side in seconds.

"You were right, it's bad," she says, and Illya restrains the urge to cuff her on the back of the head. He doesn't need to be told what he already knows. "We're going to have to use a compression bandage. Take off your belt."

He stares at her. She pushes at his chest sharply, frustration clear on her face.

"Kuryakin, we don't have much time if you want her to live through the night. Take off your belt. We're going to use it to tighten the pressure on the wound. Hurry."

He follows her command, the hiss of the leather sliding through his belt loops the only sound beside Gaby's ragged breathing. (He is so attuned to the sound that he notices even the slightest change. He hopes that someday he will die listening to her breathing, and prays that tonight it will not be the other way around.)

The medic is busy fashioning a bandage out of her scarf, folding it over to create a passable imitation of a gauze pad. She strap the belt around it and pulls tight.

"It's too big for me to use the holes and the buckle," she mutters distractedly. She looks around for a moment, and then looks back at him, decisive. "You're just going to have to hold it yourself. Don't pull too hard—you'll crack her ribs."

He pulls the belt in place and lets her test its tightness until she's satisfied.

"Hold it just like that and don't let the pressure loosen until we get there," she says, and he nods. She has no way of knowing that he would willingly give his life for the woman in his arms. Holding a belt in place is child's play. He would do this for days, weeks, if it meant Gaby might live.

She gets back in the front seat and in moments they're on the road again. Illya listens carefully, but there's no discernible change in Gaby's breathing, and the scarf under the taut line of his belt is not yet soaked with blood. It's working, and he lets himself breathe a tiny sigh of relief. Right now, it is a victory of moments—each moment she does not slip away from him, each moment he can hold her together with the strength of his hands and his desperation, is a success.

The curves and dips of the mountain road slip past them, and still Gaby breathes against his shoulder, and the little medic flies around corners at twice the posted speed. He thinks in some small detached corner of his brain that she's a good driver—Gaby would like to meet her, talk to her about automobiles and engines and tricks of the trade. Then he shakes himself back to reality. There is an excellent possibility that Gaby will never talk to anyone about anything again if they don't get there, and fast.

"How close are we?" he asks, and he's surprised at how hoarse his own voice is. He swallows and wonders at how quickly his long years of composure have vanished.

She doesn't look around, just glances at the odometer.

"About twelve miles," she answers, and he sees her eyes flick backwards for a fraction of a second. "How is her breathing?"

"Same," he answers, and checks the tightness of the belt. Something about the movement registers, because Gaby whimpers very faintly. The sound floods into him like an electric shock.

" _Bozhe moi_ ," he whispers, and his head snaps up to meet the little medic's eyes in the mirror, her gaze sharp, fearful.

"What is it?" she snaps, and her knuckles on the steering wheel are white and clenched.

"She made a noise," he says, hope pounding fiercely through his veins. She raises her eyebrows.

"That's good," she says, and the pleased surprise in her voice makes his heart beat even faster with relief. "Means she's at least partially conscious. See if you can get her to talk to you."

He keeps the tension in his belt with one hand and pulls her closer to him with the other, his arm curved around her shoulders, his fingers stroking her wrist, the delicate bones of her hand.

" _Lyubimaya, milaya_ ," he whispers against her hair, breathing her in. He can still detect the rose scent of her shampoo, the spiced warmth of her perfume, and—yes, the faintest hint of engine oil. Even as they are, with another pair of eyes trained on him, it almost makes him smile. His little chop-shop girl, always with a little petrol on her hands, the smell of automotive oil in her hair, never far from her grease-monkey roots.

He shifts minutely, and freezes when she gasps a little and rolls her head on his shoulder. The sound makes his stomach tighten—he hates it, hates hearing her in pain, but she's moving for the first time in half an hour, and dear God, but he's grateful.

"Gaby," he murmurs in her ear, his lips pressing briefly at her temple, " _ptichka_ , talk to me. _Pozhaluysta_ , little one, come on. We're almost there."

She groans, and joy and agony twist through his chest.

"That's it," he whispers, and kisses her forehead, her eyelids, the imperious sweep of her brows. "Don't give up now, it's only a few more minutes."

He think he's imagining it at first, but after a second or two, he's sure. She's trying to tighten her fingers around his hand. He almost laughs with relief.

"She's moving her fingers," he tells the medic without looking up, and he hears her little exhale of surprise.

"That's very good," she says. "She's tough, your girl."He doesn't bother to correct her, to tell her that Gaby is hardly his girl, that she'd probably rip out the other woman's throat for saying such a thing. (Never mind that she still wears the ring he bought her in Rome, around her neck on a thin gold chain. Never mind that they've nearly kissed three—no, four times, that he watches her everywhere she goes and she doesn't seem to mind. Never mind that sometimes she watches him too. Never mind that last night he ended up whispering in passionate Russian that he loved her, over and over again in the darkness when he knew she was safely asleep by his side.)

The pressure on his fingers lessens, and he sees Gaby's lashes lift minutely. The lights of the city are growing brighter on the horizon, and he can feel a little of the unbearable tension lift. It's going to be all right. They're going to make it, she's going to live, and he will not have to contemplate how to end the darkness that will descend upon him if she is not there.

And then, without a second of warning, everything goes straight to hell.

* * *

Further Notes:

Again...I think that most of the medical details make sense (more or less), but you are welcome to tell me if I've utterly and completely mucked something up. Same goes with the translations (and transliterations, for that matter). Finally, this is my first attempt at an OC in TMFU, so please let me know what you think of the little medic!

Translations:

 _Bozhe moi_ \- My God

 _Lyubimaya, milaya_ \- My love, my darling

 _ptichka_ \- little bird

 _Pozhaluysta_ \- Please


	4. In Extremis

A/N: _in extremis_ \- Latin. Literal translation - "at the farthest edges." Can also mean at the point of death or in an extremely difficult situation.

* * *

He doesn't know what just happened.

One moment, Gaby was starting to wake up, and now she's coughing, choking, a horrible struggle for air that shakes her entire body, fills the car with the sound of her suffering. He snatches her closer, acting on pure instinct, his hands clutching at the belt that is holding her together.

"What's happening?" he half-shouts at the woman in the front seat. He is shaking so hard he can barely talk, but he forces the words out anyway. "What is wrong?"

She grits her teeth and presses harder on the gas pedal. "I was afraid of this," she mutters. "Don't let up the pressure on her wound. We're nearly there, and if she can make it for a few more minutes—"

He loses it. " _Ëб твою́ мать_!" he spits, furious, the filthiness of the language barely registering. "Tell me what is happening to her, now."

She doesn't flinch, at the tone or the words, even though she has to know what they mean if she's been in East Germany as long as she says. Her eyes never stray from the road as she answers in a low, even voice.

"Calm down," she says, and makes a right turn onto a deserted city street with enviable speed and precision. "She's experiencing hemothorax. It's bad, but it's not fatal if we can get her to a decent emergency room in time."

"What the hell is hemothorax?" he growls. Another turn, faster this time, and they are on a busy avenue. It doesn't seem to faze her; she weaves through the traffic like a professional.

"Her lungs are filling up with blood," she answers dispassionately, eyes darting to the side mirrors as she zips around a commercial van. "I imagine that there was a small puncture and the blood's been slowly leaking in for the past half-hour. But now the internal bleeding has built up enough pressure to cause a tear in the wall of the lung, and so it's flooding in all of a sudden. That's why she's fighting to breathe."

In the back, Gaby is still choking and coughing, and as he watches in horror, her skin begins to take on a faint bluish tinge. He touches his cheek to her forehead. It is cold and clammy, and something inside him strains to the point of breaking. She cannot die. Not here. Not like this. Not while he watches, helpless to do anything but beg her to hold on.

"She's turning blue," he chokes out, pressing his face to her skin as if to somehow take the cold from her, give her whatever warmth he has. "Her skin is cold. _Охуе́ть_ , _oхуе́ть_ , Gaby, no, don't, please, please."

He barely realizes that the little medic is now taking corners on two wheels, he's so focused on the woman whose life is ebbing away with every rasping breath. He doesn't even register the wetness on his lashes, the catch in his own breathing as he pulls the belt tighter still and crushes her to him, buries his face in her hair.

" _Ne mogu zhit' bez tebya_ ," he whispers. " _Ne ostavlyay menya, milaya, pozhaluysta. Ty nuzhna mne_."

They're so useless, the words. _I can't live without you. Don't leave me, my darling, please. I need you._ So foolish, really, to think that anything he can say, any declaration of love, will save her now. But he can't seem to stop himself.

She's still breathing, but just barely, when they jerk to a stop outside the doors marked _Notaufnahme_. Before the car has even rocked to a complete halt, the little medic is by his side.

"Gently, gently," she says, her hands pressing gingerly on Gaby's chest, checking the wound below. "Can you keep the pressure on and carry her at the same time?"

He nods, not capable of speech. The other woman rests a hand on his arm, the briefest of touches. "It's going to be all right. Come on."

He carries Gaby in, his boots echoing on the tile floors, the sharp sting of antiseptic and disinfectants filling his nose. She's stopped coughing, which fills him with even greater fear. Now she's gasping for breath, soft short pants that catch at the beginning and the end. He curves his body around her, sheltering her from everything but the struggle to draw in air, and when he feels hands reaching for her, he refuses to let go.

"Kuryakin," he hears faintly, and feels gentle, capable hands tugging at his wrist. "Let them take her. They'll save her, I promise. But you have to let go."

He relinquishes her begrudgingly, watches the orderlies lay her on a stretcher and wheel her away as fast as they can, jogging down the hallway as they hook her to an IV and check her vital signs. He doesn't know what to do with himself now that she's gone, the weight of her slight body no longer there to anchor him, hold him in the world of reality. Who knows what could happen behind those walls?

Thinking fast, he grabs the little medic's arm. "Take me to surgery," he rasps, his voice sounding like it's rusty with disuse. "I want to make sure they do good job."

She frowns a little. "I don't know that I can get permission for that…" she begins, but he shakes his head fiercely and grips her arm a little tighter.

"Was not a request," he says, and she scans his face and huffs out an exasperated breath.

"Fine," she says, and tugs at her arm, blood now streaking her sleeve. "If you don't mind letting go of me, I'll talk to the surgeon and see what I can do."

Five minutes later, they're watching from behind a window as Gaby, limp and sedated, is wheeled in, already prepped for surgery. He shifts, uncomfortable and wary. He knows basic field medicine, but he has no way of knowing what the surgeon is doing, or if he's doing it well.

"What is happening?" he asks, and the little medic narrows her eyes to observe more carefully.

"He's putting in a chest tube," she answers. "It will let the blood drain so that they can restore normal pressure to the lung. Then he'll go in for the bullet and repair the internal damage."

"Don't worry," she adds, looking at him with sympathetic eyes. "He's the best in Oberhausen, probably the best in all of Westfalen. If anyone can help her, it would be him."

He nods and is silent for the rest of the procedure, every muscle in his body tensed, his hands balled into blood-stained fists as if he can somehow hold her there, give her all the strength in his big frame, save her through the force of his will alone. When it's finally over and she's being wheeled away, the surgeon slips off his mask and nods toward the window where they stand, watching. He's middle-aged, tired-looking and pale under the stark lights of the surgery bay, but he's smiling. Illya takes that as a good sign.

"It went well," the little medic says on an exhale of relief. "She's out of danger. They're taking her to a room to rest."

She turns towards the door and motions for him to come with her.

"Come on," she orders. "You want to see her, don't you?"

He follows her blindly, all of his training tossed aside, focused on putting one foot in front of the other until they're standing in front of a nondescript room with Gaby's name on the door. He doesn't know what floor they're on, how many passages they've turned down or which direction they went. As an agent, he's doing an abysmal job, and he couldn't care less.

The little medic has a hand on the doorknob, but stops and turns around to look up at him.

"She's asleep," she says, a note of warning in her voice. "She needs rest. Just so you know."

He frowns at her, ready to brush her aside like a gnat. Of course he's not going to disturb Gaby. This is ridiculous.

"I know," he says, impatient, and she opens the door and stands aside to let him go through. Gaby lies in a hospital bed close to the window, very still, but her breathing is quiet and regular and the steady drip of medication in the IV tube above her reassures him. She will be all right, he tells himself.

He walks to her bedside, as quietly as he can, and sits in the chair beside her. It creaks beneath him, and he mentally curses shoddy German workmanship. Slowly, carefully, he reaches for her hand, the one that does not have wires and tubes sticking out of it. Her skin is warm and supple, a far cry from the cold pallor of a few hours before, and he finds himself weak with the sense of respite, his fear finally easing. Without really meaning to, he bends until his forehead touches the edge of her mattress, her hand pressed securely to his cheek. It's an outrageously sentimental thing to do, but he can't find it in himself to mind.

He stays like that for a few minutes, finally straightening when he hears the click of the door closing. The little medic has left him in peace, has let him have the time he needs, and he is suddenly grateful. He owes Gaby's life to her—her quick thinking (and fast driving), her skill and her courage, and when he can think about anything except Gaby getting well, he will thank her. Not now, though.

Now, he is going to sit and wait and listen to the steady breathing beside him as if it were the most glorious symphony in the entire world-reveling in the knowledge that she is safe, and, barring any significant complications, that she will be well. Perhaps, just perhaps, it will be enough drive away the terror that has chilled him to the bone in the past few hours, will loosen the knot of guilt in his stomach. He is well aware that this is his fault, that if he had been sharper, more alert, his partner would not be lying in a hospital bed, would not have been fighting for her life on an operating table. Her blood has dried in dark flecks on his hands, beneath his fingernails, and he thinks that no matter how long he washes, he will never rid himself of the stain.

He settles back in the chair, his bloody fingers intertwined with hers, and closes his eyes.

* * *

The telegram from Solo comes the next day.

 _W. told me everything. En route. Will bring chess set._

He's grateful for Solo too.

When he arrives, twelve hours later, the chess set tucked under his arm, Illya almost smiles. Solo stands for a moment in the doorway of Gaby's room, eyes trained on the small figure lying quietly in the bed.

"How is she?" he asks, and it's strange to hear the serious note in his voice. Solo is always sarcastic, always has an undercurrent of mockery running beneath his words. Not now.

"Better," Illya answers, not trusting himself to say too much. He tries, though, for his partner. "The doctors say she should wake up tomorrow."

Solo nods and comes in, leans against the windowsill and crosses his long legs.

"When Waverly told me…" he trails off, and Illya looks down at Gaby's hand, moves his thumb against the soft skin. He knows exactly what Solo can't say.

"They say she will be all right," he offers, trying to reassure them both. Solo feigns a sudden fascination with inspecting his fingernails, but he can see the other man's tightened lips and the quick flutter of his lashes.

Solo coughs and straightens. "So," he says in a very business-like tone of voice, "let's see if I can beat you for once."

Illya does smile this time, albeit stiffly.

"Will never happen."

* * *

She wakes up the next day.

* * *

Further Notes: Angst, as promised! I so love torturing poor Illya, and I really don't know why. He suffers beautifully, I suppose. Also, Solo's first appearance on the scene. He'll be sticking around until the epilogue, making snarky little comments and generally insinuating himself in everybody else's business. (It's what he does best.)

Translations:

 _Ëб твою́ мать!_ \- literal translation is "fuck your mother"; apparently can mean a variety of things, all of which are quite angry and definitely profane.

 _Охуе́ть_ \- fuck

 _Notaufnahme_ \- Emergency Room


	5. Awakening

She wakes around four o'clock in the afternoon. He's trying to decide whether or not he should move his rook before Solo comes back. They've been playing the same match for three hours now, and the other man is doing surprisingly well, all things considered. (Illya is convinced that this is because he is distracted by Gaby's condition. Solo is nowhere near as good as he is.)

He's frowning at the board, concentrating hard, when he hears a little noise beside him. It's very faint, just a soft exhale, but it's a change in the steady pattern of her breathing that has become woven into his consciousness over the past twenty-four hours, and he notices immediately. When he spins around to check on her, he goes perfectly still. Her eyes are open.

As soon as she sees him turn, she smiles. It's a pale imitation of her usual bold grin, but it's there and it's a start and for a moment he can't breathe with sheer happiness.

"Gaby—" he starts, but she shakes her head.

"What—what day is it?" she whispers. He has to strain to hear her.

"Tuesday," he says, after a long moment. "It's Tuesday."

He rises, pulls his chair closer to her side. Tentatively, he reaches for her hand, and she surprises him by grabbing his and holding tight.

"That long?" she asks, and he hears the fear in her voice. "How bad was it?"

He gulps back the ridiculous tightness in his throat that is threatening to spill over into a declaration of some sort and focuses instead on answering her, clinical and precise.

"Bullet wound to chest," he says, voice tightly controlled. "Collapsed lung. Hemothorax. Surgeon put a tube in your chest to drain blood, removed bullet. The nurses say you are recovering nicely."

It's all he has to offer, unless she wants him to burst into some sort of absurd show of emotion. (And if that dam breaks, God only knows what will come out.)

She nods slightly, categorizing her injuries, making a little humming noise as she registers the tubes in her arm, the ones snaking out from under the sheets, as she ghosts her hand over the bandages on her chest.

"How soon can I get out of here?" she asks next, as he knew she would, and his lips curve. Never likes to be tied down, his Gaby. She won't be happy about what he's about to tell her.

"Another five days, at least," he tells her, and sure enough, there's the quick flash of anger in her eyes.

"Another five _days_?" she says, sounding outraged. "This is ridiculous. Why can't I go recuperate at a safehouse or something?"

He shrugs, looks down at their joined hands.

"You endured serious injury," he says, slowly. "You should stay in hospital, recover fully. Solo and I do not have medical training to care for you."

"Pffft," she says, a furious little cat. "You're certainly capable of dressing wounds and changing bandages. And I hate this already."

He can't help himself; he lets his thumb stroke over her knuckles once, twice, his eyes never rising to hers. There's so much he wants to say, so much that needs to be said, and he can't bring himself to tell her any of it. He's never been this much of a coward.

He hears her hiss in pain, and looks up quickly to see her trying to lean forward, her other hand reaching out for him. Without thinking, he rises, his hands on her shoulders pressing her back into the pillow.

"What are you doing?" he snaps, sharply. He knows he should be gentle, speak softly, but he's just now stopped fearing for her life and he doesn't have gentleness in him yet. She gives him an annoyed glance.

"Trying to make you look at me," she explains, as if he is very stupid. He flushes and lifts his hands from her, sits down abruptly.

"Then just tell me," he says, and hates the way it comes out, terse and short-tempered. "Don't pull tubes out."

She pushes at his shoulder. "You are no fun in hospitals," she says, and he accepts the rebuke even though it stings. "Where is Solo? Surely he's here by now. He came…didn't he?"

He doesn't know what to think of the way she says it. Does she wish she'd woken up to see Cowboy instead of him? Does she wish he'd leave, send the American in here? Has he been wrong all along and there actually is something between them, something deeper than the teasing and the mild flirting and the love of all things Western? His chest suddenly feels heavy.

"He is downstairs, getting bad coffee," he says neutrally. "Should I get him for you?"

She shakes her head. "No, he'll come along when he's ready," she says, and she sounds tired. "I don't suppose they'll let me have coffee just yet, hmm?"

He gives her a look. "No."

She rolls her eyes and settles back into the pillow, wriggling a little to get comfortable and wincing as the wound twinges. Her hand flies to the bandage beneath the hospital gown, and he feels a quick stab of alarm.

"Are you all right?" he asks, not bothering to hide the worry in his voice. "Have you pulled something?"

She waves a hand at him. "I'm fine, I'm fine," she says, but she's a little breathless.

"I will call the nurse," he says in a tone that will brook no argument, and he's already at the door of her room when Solo breezes in, two cups of coffee carried precariously in one hand. The second he sees Gaby sitting up, his entire face lights.

"You're awake!" he exclaims, and the delight in his voice is unmistakably genuine. "My God, Teller, I thought we'd finally gotten rid of you. I was getting ready to auction off all that Chanel I bought you for your last birthday." The words are flippant, a little callous, even, but the tone is pure adoration.

She grins at him, eyes twinkling, and Illya feels a little sick.

"I don't die that easily," she informs Solo, and he chuckles.

"I knew it," he says. "Want a sip of coffee? Don't tell the nurse I gave it to you," he warns as she lifts a hand for the warm mug.

"Not even under torture," she promises, and Illya edges closer to the door.

"I think I will go get sandwich," he says casually, and slips out of the room as he hears Gaby ask, "So, did we get everything we came for?" Let Solo fill her in on the details of the mission; she clearly doesn't want them from him. Solo can be the one to tell her that the briefcase that nearly cost her life is safely on its way to England in the hands of the little blonde medic, that the mission is over and there's nothing left for her to do but get well.

He spends much longer than he should in the cafeteria and ends up eating two bites of a sandwich that tastes like refrigerated cardboard before throwing the rest away. He never wastes food (growing up in Soviet Russia tends to impress on one the importance of eating whatever is available), but right now, he can't seem to summon any sort of appetite.

She's awake, but she seems farther away than ever before.

* * *

Five and a half days later, and they're moving her into a little safehouse on the outskirts of Hamborn. It's a smaller town, quieter, and if any rumours have started about a woman with a gunshot wound coming into the hospital at Oberhausen (and then being joined by a Russian and an American), it's best that they take this opportunity to fade silently into the woodwork. Best to not draw attention to themselves, not while one of the trio is incapable of so much as walking on her own.

It's been a miserable week, at least on his side. Gaby and Cowboy seemed to be having a perfectly delightful time, when she wasn't grousing about wanting out of the hospital faster and he wasn't threatening to tie her to the bed if she didn't lie down and stay still.

 _That_ had been a fun conversation.

 _I can't take another minute of this_ , she'd snapped, sitting up and swinging her legs over the side of the bed, even though she had to stop mid-motion to catch her breath and she had a hand clapped over her wound the entire time. _It's like being in prison—a prison that reeks of Lysol and has coffee that tastes like a Stasi guard spit in it._

Solo huffed out a laugh, even as Illya rushed to hold her back.

 _You cannot move_ — he'd started, but Solo was already by her side, fingers curving gently over her shoulder.

 _You know you can't get up yet_ , he said, eyes warm even as he slid an arm under her knees and shifted her back onto her pillows. She gave him a nasty look.

 _I hate being manhandled and you know it_ , she'd snarled. _If you don't let me go, I'll stand up the second your back is turned. Watch me._ Her eyes were snapping with temper, her cheeks flushed for the first time in days, and Illya tamped down the surge of arousal it brought out in him. Not the place, not the time.

Solo just raised an eyebrow. _If you don't promise to stay still, I will get my handcuffs and chain you to that goddamned bed_ , he answered, cool and level. _Watch_ me.

She was outraged for a moment, and then he watched as the fury morphed into something sly and amused. _Why, Napoleon Solo_ , she purred. _I didn't know you liked whips and chains. How wicked of you._

Illya almost choked on his coffee. Whips? Chains? Dear God, what was she—

But his partner was chuckling, deep and rich. _Gabriella Teller, accusing me of fetishism_ , he snorted. _That I should live to see the day._

Illya could feel his face burning, the crimson flush seared into his skin. He knew what they were talking about, of course, had heard of the brothels where such practices were offered for those who enjoyed that sort of thing. He had never participated in it, couldn't imagine hitting a woman for pleasure, even with her consent…couldn't really imagine enjoying being beaten himself. For him, pain is a stimulant, but certainly not an erotic one. (Although the fact that he still can't stop thinking about Gaby wearing nothing but handcuffs and a smile disturbs him greatly.)

Solo looked in his direction and nudged Gaby gently. _I think Peril is a bit more…conventional in his tastes_ , he commented drily. _We're making him blush._

She'd glanced at him and smiled, almost as if she knew the alarming thoughts weaving their way through his mind. _He has no idea_ , she said, and the malicious note of pleasure in her voice made him shift uncomfortably. He didn't want to think of her like that, certainly didn't want Cowboy thinking of her like that. Really, he didn't want anybody thinking anything at all at that particular moment.

She had laughed at him and obediently lain back down, but it was too late. He's lived in fear of the words _handcuffs_ and _tied up_ and _chains_ for three days, and it's wearing on him. Really, being in that small room for hour after hour has been wearing on all of them. Time for them to get out of the close quarters of the hospital, get moved into their safe haven for the next week or two, have some space where Gaby can finish recuperating and they can find some sense of balance once more.

They help her down the flagged sidewalk and into the little living room, draw back the curtains for her so she can see the rainswept garden from her perch on the sofa. She's frighteningly pale just from the effort of leaving the hospital and driving the fifteen minutes to the safehouse, and he wonders if two weeks will be long enough to let her recover. He's willing to do whatever it takes to buy her more time (even though he's fairly sure that Waverly will give her as long as it takes).

Solo goes in the kitchen to make her tea, and Illya stands by the window, hands clasped behind his back, staring out into the silver sheets of rain and the dark, dripping leaves. He hears her shift behind him, trying to get comfortable.

"Is it all right?" he asks without turning around. He hears a little grunt of pain, barely audible, and spins to face her. He is immediately stunned, disbelieving—she's trying to walk on her own, holding on to one of the dining room chairs for balance, nearly doubled over. Her face has lost all colour, and for a hideous moment, he's in the cramped backseat of that Volkswagen again…her blood soaking into his shirt, her face purple-blue, his hands holding her together while he begs frantically for time, more time, just a little more time. The twist of terror in his gut is so sharp, so fast, he can't think straight.

"What are you doing?" he shouts at her, and she actually flinches. "What are you _thinking_? Sit down!"

She stares at him, shocked into silence, and he feels a wash of shame flood over him. He has never raised his voice to her in anger, not once. Even on missions, there's rarely cause for him to shout. He cannot believe what he's just done, and from the look on her face, she's can't either.

He hears a clatter of china to his left, and knows that Cowboy is standing in the doorway, watching, ready to step in.

"Everything all right?" Solo asks carefully, and Gaby turns toward him, very slowly.

"I want to wash up," she says, looking past Illya as if he isn't even there. "Will you help me?"

Solo doesn't hesitate as he crosses to her, but he does toss a glance over his shoulder as he goes, his expression unreadable. Gently, he takes her arm and walks her toward the small master bedroom with its adjoining bath. As soon as they are out of earshot, Illya sinks down on the sofa, head between his hands.

He has no idea how much time has passed before he hears Solo's familiar stride, soft and cat-like over the ugly patterned carpet.

"I convinced to her lie down for a bit," he says, and Illya feels the other man sink into the cushions beside him. "The fact that she nearly fainted in the bathroom made it difficult for her to argue."

Illya doesn't move, doesn't lift his head. He doesn't think he can face either of them right now.

"Peril," and Solo's voice is pitched to soothe a frightened child or a spooked horse, "what happened in Moers?"

He doesn't want to talk about it, doesn't want to think about it. But this is Solo, his partner, his friend, and he just bellowed like an angry bull at his other partner (who is also the woman he's been in love with for over a year), and he thinks that perhaps it's time to do as he's asked.

"We were on the _Kranichstraße_ ," he begins, and that whole long, terrible night comes pouring out of him, his English becoming more broken and accented as he goes. By the time he's finished, Solo has risen to stand at the French windows, looking out at the darkening sky.

"My God," he says, after a long moment. "No wonder you're—" He pauses, seeming to search for a word that won't offend his partner.

"A mess—is how you say it?" Illya offers with a half-chuckle that comes out like he's being strangled. He presses his lips together and stares down at his hands, wondering how long it will be before he can look at Gaby again without seeing her dying before his eyes. How long it will be before he can go back to whatever his version of normal was.

Solo sighs, a long, tired sound. "Waverly would say you need to see a psychologist."

Illya's head jerks up, eyes burning. "No," he says, instantly. "No doctors. No tricks, no drugs. I am fine."

The other man is shaking his head. "It's not like it was in the KGB—" he begins, but Illya cuts him off.

"No," he says, and his voice is steel, adamantine, cutting through all of Solo's good intentions. "No. I cannot—I will not go there. No."

Solo accepts this, nods a little, and goes back to staring out the windows. It's almost fully dark by now, and Illya can see his reflection looking back at him. He almost wishes he could blot it out, draw the curtain across the pane and hide the man whose head used to be the playground of the best KGB psychiatrists, whose file is fat with reports of psychotic rages and pictures of other men beaten to a pulp. He does not want to be that man again.

There is silence for another minute, two, and then Solo finally speaks again.

"Have you told her?"

Illya jerks back into reality, the here and now of this drab little living room with its lamplight and the sound of water dripping from the gables.

"No," he says, quietly. "Why would I? She does not need to know…how close it was. How bad it was."

He can see his partner's face reflected in the window too, and he can read Solo's frustration, lips thinned and the rapid one-two blink that signals that a mark is doing something unexpected, something he's still trying to figure out.

"She doesn't understand," he says, and Illya can tell he's weighing his words carefully. "She knows it was bad, of course. She still can't stand up for very long without falling over. But I don't think she realizes that she almost died that night."

The words fall like stones between them, heavy and immovable. He finds his chest tightening again.

"And I should tell her, then? So she can live with the fear too? _Nyet_ ," he snaps, pushing up off the sofa in his resolve. "I will not do that to her. Bad enough that I live with it. That I know it is my fault."

Solo's jaw works, lips twisting in aggravation. He's looking for the right thing to say, and doesn't seem to be finding it. In the meantime, he pulls a cigarette lighter out of his pocket (it looks remarkably like the one that belonged to the Greek arms dealer they captured two weeks ago), and begins clicking it on and off, on and off, as he slowly begins.

"Peril, as much as I hate talking about anyone's feelings, particularly yours, I think it imperative to point out that there is something going on with you and Gaby. There has been ever since Rome."

Click. Click. Click. The light flicks on, flicks off, and his eyes never leave the tiny flame wavering in his palms.

"For the past year or so, the two of you have been dancing around each other, and you've been getting a little deeper with every mission. I know you're under the impression that you're both being extremely subtle, but really, it's quite obvious. And, might I add, incredibly dangerous as well."

The steady _click_ , _click_ continues, the only sound in the absolute silence of the room.

"So. You can understand, given the circumstances, how our darling Gaby would have absolutely no idea why the man who has been head-over-heels in love with her up until a week ago is now avoiding her, shouting at her, and snapping like a wounded bear every time she feels the slightest amount of pain."

Illya stares at him and consciously makes sure his mouth hasn't fallen open.

"You know, and I know, exactly why. But she thinks she's done something to offend you, and she doesn't know what. And I'm getting very tired of playing referee."

The words remind him of another night, this one warm and fragrant, and Gaby's defiant stare… _why am I playing mother, hmm?_ Of course she doesn't know why he's angry. How could she? But he cannot make himself tell her.

"I—I cannot," he manages, and Solo makes an exasperated noise and tosses the lighter onto the dining room table. The clatter of metal on wood makes them both wince and glance automatically towards the bedroom, but there's no sound and no movement, and they both relax a little. Solo turns back to his partner, impatience in the lines bracketing his mouth.

"I'm done trying, Peril. If this whole thing blows up in your face, so be it. But, for the sake of everyone's peace of mind, do you think you could manage to resolve things _before_ our two weeks are up?"

Illya glowers at him and stuffs his hands in his pockets to give himself something to do. He knows he can't go on this way— _they_ cannot go on this way. Something will have to give. He just doesn't know what.

" _Ostav' menya v pokoye_ ," he mutters, turning away abruptly. He is finished with this conversation, finished with being lectured about his affairs like a naughty child. He knows it's petulant, but he stalks off towards the stairs in the entryway. He wants to be alone, have time to gather his thoughts. Wants to get Solo's words out of his ears.

"'Leave you alone,'" he hears Solo echo behind him, sarcasm glossing heavy over the words. "Yes, that seems like an excellent idea. A perfect solution, Peril."

" _Xуйло́_ ," he grumbles to the coat rack. "Asshole."

Sleep does not come easily that night.

* * *

Translations are included in the text, but if something is unclear, please let me know. As always, pointing out any translation/historical errors is deeply appreciated.


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